Lost Destinies

↳ 17: An Unseen Force Of Destiny

Everything hurts and life is misery.

Such was the first thought that pounded through her skull as Ramona forced herself up on an excessively soft couch, squashed against Minerva to her right. Instantly she tensed into defense mode. Everything was unfamiliar. Her mind cranked out possibilities by the second: kidnapping, arrest, about to be eaten alive by a vaguely humanoid spider cult. Perhaps she shouldn't let her personal foul experiences influence her judgment. There were no spider-people in sight, and besides, this didn't look like any jail cell she'd spent the night in. She elbowed Minerva's head out of her lap, groaning as the soreness in her muscles doubled in intensity. Minerva blinked awake, and within moments, she wasn't the only one.

Penny's voice split the silence, her glare sweeping apprehensively across the room. "Where in Rose's good name are we?"

Minerva clutched her head, long locks of blond falling neatly over her shoulders as if she'd never gone to sleep at all. She'd never had a bad hair day, or even really a bad hair minute, and Ramona was more than a little bitter about it. Come on—she hardly even sweated!

"The butterflies," she mumbled, her voice lined with painful acceptance. The trap had been devastatingly effective, leaving all of them to mourn their falling for it upon realization afterward.

"You know what they say," Ramona sighed back, rubbing a hand over her face as if she would blink and the scene around them (which undeniably came with the next phase of their unwanted adventure) would miraculously disappear, "everything that glitters costs you gold."

Minerva rolled her eyes at the dumb Villagetown expression, but mouthed it to herself anyway. A reminder. It was almost unnerving how fascinated she had been with the winged creatures the night before, like she'd never seen anything so fantastical and never would again. There was just something about things that flew that had always piqued her interest, but looking back on it...

Ramona shook her head wearily, knocking it back against the cushion behind her. They were just butterflies. They were just butterflies.

Penny brandished the short knife in her sleeve and turned it over, scanning their surroundings for threats on instinct. Her eyes were still half-lidded, barely awake. "In Rose people say 'florists always sell you thorns'," she said, quiet and with that Villagetowner accent she'd never quite dropped that came through thicker when she was sleepy. It was funny, Ramona thought, that the three of them could have all come from the same place and lead completely different lives, only to find each other anyway. One could never escape Villagetown, not really. Growing up there, everyone said that you'd never leave if you hadn't before you were twenty, settling for an easy, boring lifestyle because it was safe. If you did get out it followed you forever regardless. People recognized the not-so-attractive looks or sometimes the accent or the occasional odd slang phrase or the drab sense of style. It was only when Ramona had learned to embrace her Villagetownness—her averageness—that she'd gained the ability to blend in with a crowd. No one spotted her at first glance anymore.

When she first met Claude he'd been surprised that she didn't live up to her reputation. There was only ever one rumor that was true. And it was a secret she'd only told once. "I'll entertain that one. The Ugly Duckling's a ghost."

"And how does one go about becoming a ghost?" Claude had asked lazily, leaning back with a fresh bottle of brandy even though there was already alcohol on his breath. He was a considerably worse drinker three years ago than he was now, mostly because everyone always pretended not to notice when Penny threw his stuff out.

Ramona had smirked and told him, "Be ugly."

Claude today was grudgingly sitting up, not far from Bear splayed across the floor. He looked about as energized and ready for whatever was ahead as she felt; that is to say, not particularly. Bear had transformed back into himself still dressed as Walter Wagner, which took Ramona a moment to register as the previous day and its costumes somehow felt like a distant, hazy memory already. His head thunked against a standing lamp as he disorientedly tried to get up after the stint he'd done in his animagus form. Something was off about him. Usually he seemed refreshed and revitalized after a transformation, albeit a little dizzy maybe, but he looked grayish and terribly drained. Claude shot him a wary glance.